was friends all my life. And ten years ago I bumped into Vova. He was an old-age pensioner already and had left the security services. We reminisced about Nadezhda Danilovna and Lyusya. I once again unquestioningly repeated my sacramental phrases about the wisdom of a simple Russian woman… «What simple woman?», he interrupted me, «she was a graduate of the Smolynyi Institute for Noble Girls. They only accepted girls from aristocratic families. Her family weren't simple at all. What do you mean, illiterate? She knew five languages. And her husband was a very senior member of the regional committee.» How do you like that? I was shocked. There goes your simple woman. Your illiterate woman. What a dimwit I was. And how the people of that time knew to keep their mouth shut. They were able to grow into a new skin. To live another's life instead of their own. And to never let the secret out. No to give themselves away with either a word or a hint. And my parents accepted the risk and kept silent. One thing offers comfort: we all genuinely loved each other, my parents, nanny, her daughter and I, the youngest. And was I really that wrong? No, I was right. She was full of goodness. And insight. And worldly wisdom. These things don't come from the Smolnyi Institute. But from a person's own heart. From the difficult life, the hard life that falls to the lot of every person, no matter where he or she lives in the vast expanse of our motherland. From the fields and forests of central Russia's nature. Some people find all this under every bush, as my dear nanny used to say – the goodness, the insight, and the worldly wisdom, too. Just as they find our father in heaven.
Post-war Romanticism
For Samuil the war meant work and more work. Every day, day in, day out. In the hospital there were the wounded, bandages, dressings, operations. The sick had to be fed. He organised a farming initiative farming on a personal plot of land. They had eggs, chickens, herbs and vegetables. There were melons and gourds. They listened to the summary reports from the front. The treated and discharged the wounded. The war subsided. The boys grew up unnoticeably. Antonina felt that her Syoma had developed a roving eye and decided to «strengthen» her family. During the last year of the war, when she was 42 and Syomochka approaching 50, she gave birth to her son Sasha, our baby. The parents were no longer young and Sasha turned out a weakly child. Like Nabokov's Cincinnatus, he was born into and lived his life in spheres not from this world. He pushed just a tiny part of himself out into our world. Which is why he was so fantastically thin that he appeared transparent. He wouldn't undress in the sun so that people wouldn't see that he was slightly translucent. In return his abilities were not from this world either. He knew by heart excerpts from hundreds of volumes, reference books and encyclopaedias that he had read. He would read anything he could get his hands on – prose, poetry, plays – in addition to studying painting with the help of art albums. He had encyclopaedic knowledge. He was a good pianist. All his mother's most romantic dreams for her children's future came together in Sasha. Antonina invested her entire soul into her youngest son. But Sasha was not from this world. Not of this world. Unsuitable for our rough and sinful life. Once he'd finished musical school he was sent to the regional central town to enter the conservatory. At that time Samuil had already been sent to the sanatorium in Zheleznovodsk as chief doctor. Sasha never made it to the conservatory. He spent the money. Got stuck somewhere in the back of beyond. Fell in love with an insolent, useless, simple girl. For life. Without reciprocity. All she needed was money and presents. That's why he sacrificed his marvellous library. Then he worked as a pianist in a restaurant. The other musicians brought him a tipple of vodka, then some more. Weak as he was, Sasha didn't need much. Random people would take him home. Once his parents had left this world he threw everything to the wind – the flat, the instrument, his mother's dreams, his undeveloped talent. His brothers were worried for Sasha and wanted to help and support him. They tried to remonstrate with him. What could they have done, far away as they were? They had no choice in the matter. They had to work. They only met up during the holidays. Sasha had no strength to fight. He let himself go. Ended up in prison for a silly matter. When he got out he vanished. Perished at the hand of a random passer-by. Our dreams are in vain. Our highflying impulses are in vain. Our world is no place for highflying impulses. This is a world for those who are strong and full of vitality, and even more for those who are cruel, greedy and merciless. This is no world for Antonina, «Our Lady from Zheleznovodsk», or Sasha, the Cincinnatus from the North Caucasus. But all this is for later. For the time being Sasha was a child. His parents, advanced in years, worshipped him.
The war was over. Victory. The first postwar years in Zheleznovodsk. Soldiers were returning home from the front. Everybody was doting on them. Every boy dreamed of serving in the army. Vova joined the infantry school. They didn't let Misha go. His father wanted him to become a doctor. What were they talking about? You can't hold back a mischief maker. He was dreaming of becoming a sailor. He travelled to Baku to apply to the Naval Institute. His elderly father followed him, picked up his documents and returned him home. But all the efforts were in vain. Misha ran away to Leningrad and entered the Frunze Higher Military Naval Institute. He passed the entrance exam with ease. And he was a good student. No problem with mathematics and physics. What he needed was physical training.
Misha's dream had come true. He was a student at one of the country's best naval institutes. Well-built, smart, sinewy. The uniform fitted him perfectly. As if he'd been wearing a sailor's cap all his life. Joyful and mischievous. A brilliant storyteller. A master at various tricks and pranks. Prepared to do everything for his friends. To give his last shirt. Misha was popular straight away and became part of the inner circle of those who were lording it over the others. The centre of their friendship group was Volodya Maslov, naturally. He was older than the others and had been at the front. Later he had been a commander of the Pacific Fleer. The others were… friends. No friends were closer than them. Friends for life. Friends to the grave. The fleet and his friends. These were the most important things to Misha. More important than wife and children. The sailors' brotherhood was the highest thing.
He came home on a visit. Friends and neighbours came to have a look at the naval student. The girls would whisper to each other: «Did you see? How handsome Misha has become!» His parents were proud. His father loved seeing him in uniform. Vovka also came home on a visit. Infantry! A good-for-nothing and a scoffer. Sailors were the military elite. Vova was preparing for a rendezvous. Too embarrassed to buy condoms. Don't be shy, Vova. Misha went into the pharmacy. «Miss! There's a young man here, he needs condoms. Choose a fashionable style for him. They must have a black heel!» The salesgirls giggled, charmed by the dashing student. Vova was so embarrassed that he wished for the earth to swallow him up.
Misha loved witticisms, and he loved to make an impression. During the exam on the high bar – «I'll show you how to do turns!» One turn, another, a third… he lost his grip, flew into the rows of seats and broke his arm.
1950. The fourth, final year of study. They were due to graduate soon. A sailor needs to have a family. I'll only marry a girl who was born on the same day as me. Well, Mishka, you tell them. That way you'll never find a wife. Girls would come to the Institute to join the Frunze students at their dances. They'd buy a ticket and enter. To dance. To meet young sailors. Three pretty friends turned up. Wearing felt boots. They took off the felt boots and put on shoes. Misha approached them. But what were these two youngsters from year two doing here? He was almost a graduate, a fourth-year student. He whispered to them: «Well, rookies, quietly, I haven't seen you here». The second years were gone in a flash. Mishka carried three pairs of felt boots and three coats to the cloak room. One of the friends was Vera. An unassuming beauty, two years Misha's junior. She was wearing huge shoulder pads under her dress in accordance with the fashion of those days. Misha swept her off her feet, the quiet Vera, who was simple and unpretentious despite living in Leningrad. The sailors could have Sundays off if they had finished all their work. Misha was a good student, and so the two young people would meet once a week. Vera had no telephone at home. They would write letters to each other. The post worked well in those days, not like today. Vera would sign her letters «your mischievous Vera».
Vera was mischievous yet meek. Misha wrote to Tanya, his favourite aunt, that he planned to get married in a few months time. His parents still didn't know a thing. Vera was about to finish technical college. In spring she was due to go to Petrozavodsk on an assignment. Naturally she didn't want to go.
